Some days the skyturns dark early.Pink is obscured by gray.Rain against the window,clouds hanging low.The kind of daythat makes you wantto crawl back into bed. Life is good.I know that.There are poems to write.Breakfast needs to be made.A few thingsthat...

  I met her on the Iowa Riverwhen the water was movingand neither of us knewwhere we were going.Lost as a dead carp. We didn't have much in common.She liked to drink.I liked to drink.She liked sex.So did I.That was enoughfor...

  Hemingway saidthere is nothing to writing.Just sit down at the typewriterand bleed. Maybe he was right.Maybe the words have to comefrom somewhere deep.From old wounds.From places we would rather hide.Maybe the ghosts need to come outand walk around for a...